Connor
I wake up and nothing makes sense. The room is dark, but there’s a pale gray light bleeding through the window, that strange in-between hour that’s not quite night and not quite morning.
My head feels stuffed with cotton, my mouth tastes like something died in it, and I’m pretty sure I’m in my hotel room, except the sheets smell wrong.
Not bad wrong, just unfamiliar. Expensive cologne, something woody, definitely not the generic hotel laundry detergent.
I blink at the ceiling, trying to piece together where the hell I am, and that’s when I register the warmth next to me.
My heart kicks hard against my ribs. I turn my head, careful not to wake whoever it is.
Adrian Vega is lying on his side, facing me, asleep on top of the covers.
Oh shit.
For a second I don’t move, taking him in, my brain refusing to cooperate.
He’s so close I could reach out and touch him.
His face is relaxed in sleep, the sharp edges softened, dark lashes resting against his cheekbones.
His lips are slightly parted, and there’s something vulnerable about seeing him like this, when he’s not watching me with those unreadable eyes.
Fragments of last night start filtering back. Drinking with Brooks and McKenna at the Hilton. Too much wine. Meeting some girls. More drinking. Coming back here and running into Adrian at the bar. The surprise of finding out he was staying at the same hotel.
Aw, hell. Did I call him freaky?
I squeeze my eyes shut. Yes. Yes, I definitely called him freaky. To his face. While drunk off my ass.
More pieces click into place. The bar. Adrian trying to get me to go to my room. Something about my key card. I’d left it in Brooks’ room, and Brooks had company, so we couldn’t go back there. Adrian said something about coffee.
And then nothing. Complete blank. I must have passed out at some point.
I sit up carefully, moving as slowly as I can manage. The bed shifts under me, and I freeze, watching Adrian’s face. He doesn’t stir. I let out a breath and swing my legs over the edge of the mattress.
My head throbs, but it’s not as bad as it could be. I’ve had worse hangovers. My mouth, though. It tastes awful. I’m also desperately thirsty, my tongue thick and dry.
I push to my feet and pad toward the bathroom, keeping my steps light. The tile is cold under my feet, and I ease the door shut behind me before flipping on the light.
The brightness makes me wince. I blink at my reflection in the mirror. My hair’s a mess, sticking up in about five different directions, and there’s a crease on my cheek from the pillow. I look like hell.
I take a piss, then turn on the tap and wash my hands before splashing cold water over my face. It helps a little, shocking me more awake. I cup my hands under the stream and drink straight from the faucet, swallowing gulp after gulp until my stomach sloshes.
An unopened toothbrush and a small tube of toothpaste sit on the counter, the kind hotels leave out for guests. I grab them and spend a solid two minutes brushing my teeth. By the time I’m done, I feel human again.
I dry my face with a towel and flip off the light, stepping back into the room.
Adrian’s still asleep. I stand there for a second, watching him in the dim light, and that’s when I notice my phone sitting on the nightstand. I definitely didn’t put it there. Adrian must have taken it out of my pocket after I passed out.
I pick it up and check the screen. 6:30 AM.
I should leave. Go back to my room, take a shower, get ready for practice. That’s what I should do.
But I don’t move.
Instead, I look back at Adrian. His face is peaceful, more unguarded than I’ve ever seen him awake. He pulls at me even when I’m trying to look away.
I climb back onto the bed, moving slowly, and prop my back against the headboard. The mattress dips under my weight, but Adrian doesn’t wake. I just sit there, watching him.
He’s handsome. Like, objectively handsome. Sharp cheekbones, strong jaw, that perfect nose. The kind of face that belongs on a cologne ad or a magazine cover. I’ve noticed it before, the way you notice anyone good-looking, without really thinking about it.
But this is different. This is me staring at him, cataloging every detail. The way his dark hair falls across his forehead. The faint shadow of stubble along his jaw. The curve of his mouth.
He’s wearing a soft gray T-shirt that clings to his frame, and I can see the definition of his chest and shoulders even through the fabric. The shirt’s ridden up slightly, exposing a sliver of bare skin above the waistband of his gray sweatpants.
My gaze drags lower. The sweatpants sit low on his hips, and I can see the outline of his thighs, the muscle there. He’s built lean but strong, every line of him purposeful.
I swallow hard, my mouth going dry again for a completely different reason.
My cock stirs, swelling against the zipper of my jeans.
It’s just morning wood, I tell myself. That’s all this is. Happens to everyone. It’s got nothing to do with Adrian.
Except I’m still staring at him, and my cock is getting harder by the second, pressing uncomfortably against the denim.
I press the heel of my palm against the bulge, trying to relieve some of the pressure. The friction sends a jolt of heat through me, and I let out a breath.
Adrian’s eyes open.
I freeze, my hand still pressed against my crotch, and our gazes lock.
Shit.
His eyes drop to my lap, to the obvious bulge in my jeans, and then back up to my face. His expression doesn’t change. He doesn’t look shocked or disgusted, or even surprised. He just watches me with that same calm intensity he always has.
“Don’t stop on my account,” he says, his voice low and rough with sleep.
I let out a nervous laugh that sounds strangled. “What? I wasn’t—”
He shifts, propping himself up on the pillow, more awake now. “Keep going, Boy Scout.”
I should tell him no. Get up, leave this room, and pretend this never happened. That’s what a sane person would do.
But I’m so hard it’s almost painful, and I’ve been pent-up since yesterday’s practice. I was planning to take care of it when I got back to my room last night, but that obviously didn’t happen.
My hand moves back down, like it’s got a mind of its own and my brain’s just along for the ride.
I palm myself through the jeans, and the pressure makes me hiss. My hips jerk up, seeking more friction.
Adrian’s eyes track the movement. “That’s it,” he murmurs. “Show me how you like to touch yourself.”
I can’t believe I’m doing this, sitting here on Adrian Vega’s bed, touching myself while he watches. But I can’t stop either. The words hit me like a match to gasoline, and heat floods through me.
I unbutton my jeans with shaking fingers and pull the zipper down. I wiggle my hips, pushing the denim down my thighs, and my cock strains against my boxer briefs. There’s already a wet spot darkening the fabric where the head is.
I wrap my hand around myself through the cotton and stroke once, twice. A groan tears out of my throat.
“You look so good like this, Boy Scout,” Adrian says, his voice like gravel.
I think I come a little just from those words. My cock jerks in my hand, and I feel a fresh surge of wetness soak into the fabric.
I’ve always liked the idea of dirty talk, but every time I’ve asked a girl for it, it came out awkward and forced, like she was reading from a bad script. But hearing it from Adrian, in that low, commanding voice, does something to me I don’t understand.
“Pull it out,” Adrian says. “Show me your cock.”
I shove my boxer briefs down before I can stop myself, and my cock springs free, flushed and leaking. I grab myself, wrapping my fingers around the base, and give it a slow stroke. My thumb swipes over the crown, gathering the beads of precum, and I shudder.
“Beautiful,” Adrian says.
I freeze, my cheeks burning. Beautiful? You’re not supposed to call a guy beautiful. That’s not… guys don’t say that to other guys. Right?
But Adrian’s looking at me like he means it. Like he’s not just saying it to get me off or because he thinks it’s what I want to hear. He’s looking at me as if he wants to remember every detail.
“You’re perfect like this,” he continues, his eyes never leaving me.
That same calm from the locker room settles into me again, the way it did when he told me I was incredible.
I should feel ashamed. I should feel weird and exposed and completely mortified doing this in front of another man, in front of my rival. But I don’t. I feel safe. I feel like I can let go, like Adrian’s got me and I won’t fall.
I close my eyes and stroke myself faster. My free hand reaches down to cup my balls, rolling them in my palm, and I hiss at the spike of pleasure.
“That’s it. Swipe your thumb over the crown. Use that wetness.”
I obey without thinking, dragging my thumb through the precum and spreading it down my shaft. The slide gets smoother, and I groan.
I crack my eyes open and glance at him.
Adrian’s on his side, propped up on one elbow, and he’s watching me like he can’t look anywhere else. His hand is pressed against the bulge at the front of his sweatpants, his palm moving in slow circles.
His face has gone hungry, like he’s barely holding himself back.
It pushes me closer to the edge. I stroke myself at a punishing pace now, my wrist flicking on every upstroke, my hips thrusting up into my fist.
“You should see yourself right now, Boy Scout. You have no idea how much you turn me on.”
I whimper, like some pathetic, desperate thing, and I don’t even care. “Adrian.”
His name comes out broken, and his eyes flare.
“Come for me,” he says, his voice dropping even lower. “Show me what a good boy you are.”
The words go straight through me. My entire body locks up, every muscle tensing, and then I’m coming. I groan, loud and shameless, as I spill into my hand. Hot ropes of cum coat my fingers, splatter across my T-shirt, and I keep stroking through it, milking every last drop.
My vision whites out for a few seconds. There’s only the intense, overwhelming rush of pleasure.
When I finally come back to myself, I’m slumped against the headboard, my chest heaving, my hand still loosely wrapped around my softening cock.
I open my eyes and look at Adrian.
He’s still watching me. His hand moves over the bulge in his sweatpants, slower now, and there’s a large wet spot soaking through the gray fabric.
He came in his pants, without even taking himself out, just from watching me.
Holy shit.
I stare at him, struggling to wrap my head around it. I just jerked off in front of Adrian Vega, while he watched and talked me through it.
And it was the best orgasm of my life.